Family
by chrissyleena
Summary: Inquisitor Lavellan deals with leaving her clan behind - and adopting a new one. fLavellanxSolas (if you squint), fLavellanxCullen (hinted at)


**Family**

 **Summary:** Inquisitor Lavellan deals with leaving her clan behind - and adopting a new one.

 **Genre:** Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Family

 **Pairings:** fLavellan/Solas (if you squint), fLavellan/Cullen (hinted at)

 **Disclaimer:** All Bioware, duh.

 **Author's Note:** Finally finished this particular playthrough and it got stuck in my head. Also, special mention go to **dr. kitten** , who sparked my interest in the Cullen romance (and who has been an invaluable friend for what feels like forever). You, my dear, are the very best! (And thanks to you I now always swoon as soon as I hear dear Cullen say a single word.)

* * *

It still feels like a hazy dream when she wakes up. The elven servant - such a frightened small wisp of a girl - doesn't make it any better and then there's Cassandra and other shemlen strangers that she doesn't know but they flood her with names and titles and implications she does not understand. A spymaster who reeks of death and deception, another double-dealing noble and a templar _(Murderer! Thieves! Stealing their gifted young!)._ They want her to lead and make decisions and she feels like she will drown under the chaos of it all.

It takes her two days to find a semblance of peace within just herself, despite being surrounded by shemlen and their language and customs. Her left hand _hurts_ and she has been gone from her clan for weeks now and she is starting to feel the longing for them like a dagger in her chest that starts burrowing, deeper and deeper, worse than the pain of this _mark_. The memory of their faces start to overlay on these strangers' faces that surround her every hour of the day and it frightens her, because she thinks she starts forgetting her precious family already. Taliel's gentle curves of vallaslin on her sweet face morph into the freckles and laughing lines of the woman who lives in the hut next to her own; Noren's pleased smile at yet another perfect shot beams at her from the face of one of the guardsmen stationed at the main gate; Hahren Elos' benevolent frown regards her with resigned amusement when she returns to Adan - alchemist by claim, healer by necessity - for previously unknown healing recipes.

So before she retires on that second day, she focusses on herself, on that thread of determination that was the reason she was chosen as the keeper's First. One of her earliest lessons, the very foundation of everything she does and says and wants, was that duty to the clan comes first. Always first. And so she pushes herself up from the bundle of blankets on the floor - the bed is too soft, too strange, too _shemlen_ \- and silently exits the hut that she's supposed to call her own.

.

(As she glides through the dusk she remarks to herself that she ought to put up a wolf figure soon - as is her duty.)

.

It takes her a disturbing amount of time to find the quarters of the elven servants, for they are far off from the village center. But she still tracks them down eventually, and she finds delight in the multitude of voices that usher forth from the biggest hut. She sneaks closer and peers in through the windows and finds them - all of them? - crammed inside the wodden structure. Several dozen candles light up the entire place and there is an elder man, all white hair and frail looking hands, standing in the middle, raised voice reveberating through the hut.

She has observed flat-ears - city-elves, she reminds herself - in many cities and villages before, so she is pretty sure that he must be their Hahren, one of the few traditions and memories those poor brethren of her people have kept. She watches him for a minute or two before she decides to take action and steps around the house.

She raps her knuckles against the door with precision and at once every voice inside drops to strained silence. Soft steps echo from inside and as the door opens, the hahren's wrinkled face peers at her. His features morph from anxiety to confusion in a heartbeat at the sight of her but he still hastily steps back and opens the door a little wider to allow her entrance at once.

"Herald...," he starts with uncertainty, but she motions with her hand and he trails off in silence. She looks around at the faces staring at her and counts them silently. Thirty, forty? There are even children present, peering out from underneath their parents' protective stances and all the faces carry the same expression of what? Wonder? Fear? They all wait for her, wait as if she is not one of their kind but just another shemlen overlord.

It makes her heart twinge in pain and pity and a tiny spark of anger.

"Andaran atish'an," she intones as she crosses her hands above her chest and executes a short bow, a smile on her lips as friendly and open as she can manage.

They all stare at her dumb-founded, but she has seen city-elves react that way before so she does not let it bother her. It is the hahren who answers with a shaky smile of his own before he mimics her bow.

"Aneth ara," he answers with uncertainty as he stumbles over the foreign syllables but her smile turns blinding with delight.

"You know the language of the people?"

"Very little, Herald. Only the bits that have been passed to me by our former hahren."

Her smile falters a fraction, but she keeps it up regardless.

"Then both of you did well, preserving as much as possible."

He bows again and as easily as that, the ice has broken.

She tries to fend off their questions, explaining to them that she simply wishes to listen for the time being and learn of their community what she can. They carry on a little uneasily after that, still throwing her unsure glances every now and then, but she carefully remains silent, an uneven smile on her lips.

She does the same thing the following night, and the night after and by the time her first week in Haven has passed, the elves have stopped going rigid at her sight. It pleases her to be able to move among them, a tiny haven she is forging for herself.

By that time, she has carved several tiny wolves and one evening asks the hahren to join her after their gathering. He looks a little uneasy, but follows her readily enough. She understands that he is no mage and tells him so, but still asks him to witness the rituals she invokes as she places the tiny statues in their proper places around the village. He looks frightened and worried and after she drops him off at his hut she tries to ignore his muttered prayers to the shemlen maker and his bride, asking for forgiveness at what he perceived as blasphemy.

She tries not to let it get to her - it was to be expected - but it still hurts a little.

But while things are somewhat stilted between herself and the hahren after that, the other elves are pleased with her obvious favor. She starts caring for them directly, watching their little ones when the time permits between trecks to the Hinterlands or the Storm Coast. She helps their woman prepare food and drink and there is very little apprehension when she starts making medicine or healing their sickness.

And slowly but steadily she starts feeling at home. She may have left her clan, but it is her duty to care for those in need and these flat-ears, these _Elvhen_ , need her just as much, if not more than the ones she left. So she accepts her new position.

.

(It requires work and persuasion to get her hands on a tiny slab of sylvanwood but it is enough to carve a ring out of it and Solas only raises his eyebrows but remains quiet when he spots the wodden ring depicting Fen'harel. She knows that he knows what it means. His silent acceptance solidifies her decision, like a vote confirmed.)

.

And slowly she starts connecting to others as well.

There is the durgen'len, only he is so far removed from the stones of his ancestors that he feels more like a shem, without the attitude of superiority and, obviously, the height. She likes him, from the way he talks and quips and brings levity to any of their early, stilted conversations. But most importantly, she likes the way he watches, sees the meaning behind otherwise inconsequental actions, yet remains silent. He carries a bitter guilt and a profound sadness inside, one that is different from her own pain but it is something that makes it easier to relate to him.

Then there is Solas, but he is so complicated, so complex, that it drives her mind wild with assumptions and shattered dreams; his disregard - his disdain - for the things she prides herself in. Pride being the matter of it all; why would he call himself that? She wants to feel connected to him, the only one who is like her in the midst of this shemlen _thing_ they call Inquisition, but he stomps on her advances, on her dreams and aspirations so she withdraws from him, if only to protect her wounded heart from further pain and disappointment. They never mention the kiss that time in the Beyond, and their friendship remains, but it is a fragile and difficult little thing.

Her patience when dealing with the shem is always short and Varric does at some point speak up and question her. How does one explain their disregard for shemlen customs, the titles and pleasantries? She hates the way they dance around subjects, hide their true meanings and purpose behind false smiles and words. It's the only thing that endears her to Cassandra; the woman is a stout warrior whose skill Sylaine can respect, but more importantly she has no tact, no mind for deception. They barely - actually never - see eye to eye on anything, ranging from petty camping issues to important Inquisition matters, but they are honest with one another and there lies a quiet strength and kinship in their truth. It shows in the way they dance on the battlefield; Sylaine knows that Cassandra's shield will protect her, and in turn her magic never harms the shieldmaiden in the midst of heated battle.

Sera is even more difficult. She has the lithe body of a huntress and her aim is as true as of the best of them, but that is the only thing that marks her as elvhen. She is exactly what Sylaine fears could become of herself if she ever lost what marked her as Dalish. She is loud and obnoxious and cares nothing at all for the people they once were, their traditions and history. It saddens Sylaine greatly, but she has a duty to uphold. And so, she empties another space in her heart for Sera, offers her understanding and indulges in her whims. They reach a hesitant truce by which Sera becomes part of what Sylaine is duty-bound to protect.

Adan becomes her favorite though. His gruffiness is endearing to her, and she never bothers to hide her amused smile when she watches him with his patients. As soon as she has been cleared fit for duty, she immediately offers her assistance. Whenever she has any time of her own that she doesn't spend with the elves, she ventures to his hut and quietly lends him a hand. He does not comment on her presence, only raises an eyebrow the first few times, but she likes to think that just being around softens his words and attitude. The smell of elfroot and blood lotus is soothing in its familiarity so when he finds her one evening, huddled in a blanket in the corner of his hut, he doesn't shake her awake - he just grabs another blanket to spread over her small frame. Her mumbled 'Ma serannas' is barely audible, but she knows that he understands the sentiment behind it.

.

(Once it has started, there is nothing to make it stop.)

.

She ventures out, across Ferelden, then Orlais. In the Free Marches, her people have occasionally come across bands of Tal-Vashoth, and her clan had always been careful to avoid them as much as possible. But she has seen Qunari before, so when she meets Iron Bull and his Chargers, she has a few guidelines in place on how to deal with them. But he is neither one of the savage Tal-Vashoth, nor is he one of those stoic followers of the Qun and it confuses her greatly. At least, until she watches him interact with his own people, the ragtag group of mercenaries he leads. At once, she realizes that he is but a mirror of herself which demands her utmost respect.

When she first meets Vivienne, she is surprised and just the side of curious how a shackled mage can dance as delicately as the woman does. But as soon as they actually talk, the frightening revelation freezes her heart with dread: For Vivienne is but one of those curious puppets, suspended on countless strings, moving at the whims of an invisible master. If it were a person controling the mage it would be easier to understand - and accept - but it's something greater and far more evil than that. Indeed, the woman actually revels in the lies and deceptions the shemlen call Game; a concept which Sylaine is only slowly beginning to grasp.

Her spymaster - and she isn't entirely sure when the woman changed from _the_ spymaster to _her_ spymaster - points her attention to the Grey Wardens. The one she finds, Blackwall, is a mystery to her, all secretive and gruff and with nothing to latch on to. He is the only one of her...group...that she tends to avoid. The rift between them seems impossible to bridge and after some time she gives up on it entirely. It weighs heavily on her heart and to her surprise it is Solas who offers her comfort.

"There will always be those you cannot help, no matter how much you try," he says to her one time they sit next to the fire on one of her excursions to the coast. "Don't let it consume you lethallin."

"He is under my care, my protection. A keeper does not choose their clan, a keeper does not ignore the needs of even a single member of their clan. How am I supposed to help him, when I cannot see his hurts?"

"If he does not want your help, you cannot force him to accept it. Accept the things you cannot change. It is a sign of wisdom, of maturity. Surely you comprehend the concept?"

"Do not belittle me, lethallan."

"It was not my intention to do so, as you well know."

"Ir abelas," she says quietly then, the fight draining out of her. More than anyone else, Solas has been helping her with every matter of her new life, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. He does not deserve her ire.

So before she retires for the night she pushes another branch into the fire and sends a whispered prayer to her favored goddess.

.

(She wonders if nobody notices the markings that start appearing throughout the village or, if they do, why nobody comments on it. She spies Solas occasionally halting in his steps when he spots another fresh line on a house or tree. But other than that, nobody appears to notice.)

.

One evening, when the light is slowly starting to fade and the sky turns into a swirling dream of orange and purple and pink, she steps past the main gate as soldiers are retiring for the night which she can see - and hear - as they bustle around their tents. A part of her notices how the number of tents has grown considerably, but then again, she already knew about the constant influx of new soldiers. Liana and Marri, two of the elven laundresses, have been remarking on the increase in workload for days now. But hearing about it is a different matter than seeing the dozen new tents, pitched across the expanse of snow-covered ground.

It is strangely coordinated though, and as she watches the glinting figures move through the twilight, she realizes that there is a system in the way everything is set up. With a start, the thought that it's the commander - Cullen, she reminds herself - who is most likely the one responsible for that, enters her mind. It's not the first time that favorable thoughts of the former templar have been intruding on her mind.

As if on cue, the man in question appears from behind one of the tents and strides towards the gate. He looks preoccupied with something, a frown marring his features but as soon as he notices her standing off the side, his face clears and his direction changes.

"Herald," he greets her with a nod.

"Aneth ara, Commander."

His gaze moves from her to the gate and back again and she can practically see the question forming.

"Were you looking for someone?"

She shakes her head. Uncertainty makes her hesitate; she set out to do something specific, but now she is torn between her task and - as unexplainable as it sounds to herself - seeking cover.

"I was..." she starts, but trails off again, unsure how to phrase her thoughts.

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

Her gaze focusses on him, on the way he stands, tall and proud, and how easily his hands rest on the hilt of his sword. She knows from experience just how fast he can draw the weapon in question; how quickly he can spring into action. She looks back at the wooden gate and her jumbled mind clears.

"Yes, actually you can."

He raises his eyebrows but waits for her to explain.

"I wish to...I need to get up there," she says and motions towards the gate.

"There are ladders inside."

"I know. But I, I did not want to, I mean...I- I just..."

Her frustration mounts and a soft curse stumbles past her lips. Strangely enough, his whole posture relaxes and his eyes soften.

"Herald-"

"Lavellan. Or Sylaine. I do not appreciate that title, at least here. Or from you. I mean, anyone here. Those who are...well, _here_."

"Alright, Lavellan. If you tell me what needs to be done and I'll see to it, would that be sufficient?"

"It's not that simple. I wish to...put something up there. A carving. It wouldn't take long."

The confusion in his eyes clears and he nods in understanding. Briskly he motions for one of the guards - and only now she becomes aware of their presence. Her cheeks grow warm with discomfort - have they been listening the whole time? She barely pays attention as Cullen talks to the guard in a low voice, motioning upwards with his hands. Then he turns back to her.

"Do you have everything you need to do it?"

"Ah, yes."

He waves her closer to where he is standing next to the guard, right underneath the middle of the gate. For a moment, she is entirely bewildered by them; their posture, their folded hands, their angle. It takes her several seconds to grasp their intention and when she does, she can't help but smile. She steps closer to them then and carefully places her left foot on the guardsman's hands. She's graceful enough that she doesn't sway when she pushes herself up and then there is Cullen already, securing her other foot. Both men are impressively stable and trusting them to keep her safe, she reaches up towards the wood above her.

For a moment, she feels awe well up inside her. Never before has she been so aware of the height of shemlen men, but now, standing on their hands, held up high, she is distinctively reminded of lounging on a tree, far above the ground. It's an exhilarating feeling and adrenaline starts rushing through her veins.

Carefully she extracts her tiny carving knife from her belt before she sets to work. With precision she calls forth her magic to heat up the blade. She is so tuned into her surrounding that she practically feels the shudder than runs through the commander and with a jolt she remembers that he is - was - a templar and could most likely feel the magic. But his hold on her foot doesn't waver and when he doesn't say anything, she focusses on her task, not willing to draw out the moment longer than necessary.

The runes are simple enough that she can carve them even in the low light and the single symbol above them, so much like the flowing lines that embellish her face, is the one she is most familiar with. She has to stretch and twist a few times but never once does she worry about the possibility of falling. Her focus is absolute and by the time she is done she has gotten entirely lost in the beauty of the carved script, the meaning behind it and the possibilities they hold for her. Without a second thought, she moves her legs as if to step back to survey her handywork.

None of the men could have anticipated her sudden move and from one second to the next she is falling, balance lost. A frightened yelp lodges in her throat but then there are hands on her hips, secure and steady. Her wide eyes lock onto Cullen's own and the intensity in his gaze empties her mind. He lowers her down, careful and slow, as if she is in danger of breaking. The voice of the distressed guardsman just barely pierces the mess that is her mind and she doesn't even think about the words she speaks to reassure him.

And then her feet are on the ground again, but her whole world has lost its footing and shifted on its axis. His hands are still on her hips; she can feel the heat of them through the layers of leather, as if they are burning on her naked skin, like the magic she just invoked in the name of her goddess.

"Are you alright?"

Is is just her or is his voice suddenly quiet and low? She is so close to him, too close. She wants to retreat, find a safe distance, but his hands keep her rooted to the spot, unable to move. His eyes pierce into hers and she remembers that he asked a question.

"I- yes."

And with that, his hands are gone and she is accutely aware of the sudden cold where they used to be. He backs off a step, hand reaching up to rub his neck, until he remembers the snow and mud on his gloves and awkwardly lowers them to his side.

Sylaine tries to focus, eyes darting around, but the blood pounds in her ears and makes it infinitely harder to think straight. Nothing the keeper has taught her prepared her for this kind of situation and she feels so lost and small and frightened. There is a desperate longing for her clan, the comfort they offered, and the knowledge that she will most likely never see them again pierces the jumbled, heated mess in her mind like a dagger made of ice.

She draws back, away from the guardsman and the commander. The cold wind sweeps her cheeks, a sharp contrast to the former heat. Her hands find one another and she starts rubbing them, the skin cold and unresponsive. Her task, the one she had been thinking about for days, is all but gone from her mind. Her focus is shattered, her mind a mess. She does not know where she takes the will, but it feels like an eternity until she manages to pull herself together, so that she at least appears collected to the outside world.

"Ma serannas," she says softly and executes a shallow bow towards both men. They appear bewildered for a second. Do they not consider their help worthy of gratitude? But then she remembers herself, a Dalish mage, and of course they didn't understand, simple as that.

"Thank you," she repeats in their language.

She stands and waits and when she doesn't say any more, Cullen nods to the guardsman, sending him back to his post. He barks another short command upwards and the gate swings open with barely a groan. Instead of going off on his way he turns back to her and her wide eyes notice his raised arm.

"Lavellan," is all he says, patience and respect combined in the single name. She has observed shemlen men doing a similiar gesture and Josephine's continuous effort to teach her all those noble customs and mannerisms have been successful enough that she understands his intentions.

What she does not fully understand is the way her stomach clenches when she puts her hand on his arm, letting him lead her through the gate and back into the village proper.

.

(Her duty of closing the rifts takes her far and wide. When she was with her clan she never would have thought about travelling the world. The places she sees, the people she meets; it's all an infinite number of colors and voices and sounds. And she always returns to that village, nestled between the mountains.)

.

She returns and her eyes trail over the darkened lines on the gates as her lips murmur their meaning quietly.

"Mir vhenas, my home."

* * *

~Leena


End file.
